Psycho Killers of Print

The LongPig

He wasn’t trying to kill me. Didn’t have a taste for me, he said, grease dripping through bloody gristle down his fat and scrumptiously bare tits.

I could never rely on anyone to look out for me. Not now. Not when I was a kid. Couldn’t rely on anyone to stand up, to protect. It was a shame, just a damn shame. Crying alone. Feeling ugly, measured in slights and trifles, until I met him.

He asked if I liked to eat, said he liked to cook for people who liked to eat. Liked to prepare things to be eaten. He sent me pictures. Lean cuts. Nicely marbled. Slabs pink, seasoned, and tenderized. Fresh. Fed on sunshine and green grass. He said he worked in an abattoir. Cages. Tables. Scalpels. Freezers. Steel on Steel on Steel. Didn’t contaminate the meat, he said. I thought that was good – at first. At first is a funny thing. Never means what it is in the end. We ignore things at first.

We don’t mind.

Want a friend.

Feeling desperate.

Feeling lonely.

STARVING.

No, we don’t mind a lot – at first. Charity. Oversight. Whatever. Then we see things we don’t want to see.

Things we can’t unsee.

Then at first becomes something else. Something needful, dark, and horrible. Something so satisfying. So right.

He wasn’t trying to kill me, at first, but when he wasn’t, I was trying to kill him.